


Can the undead cry?

by orphan_account



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Death, F/F, Fluff, Forsaken, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Love at First Sight, Mental Anguish, Multiple Personalities, POV Second Person, Questions, Schizophrenia, Self-Reflection, Solitude, Tears, Undead, Undeath, Undercity, banshee - Freeform, scream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 08:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Alone, broken and scared" are not the usual terms used to describe a ruthless ruler, and it took a while for Sylvanas Windrunner to understand what is wrong with her.But knowledge gives her no peace, just more questions refusing to be answered. It forces her to hide behind a mask, a persona, until she requires solitude to let it all out.If only she had somebody to lean on...





	Can the undead cry?

"Can the undead cry?"

Last time you were in Dalaran, you overheard this particular question. Apparently, the fancy folk muse on trivialities in their free time. High on fantasies of superiority, they forget the hard work behind their worriless life. Once their high champions will cease carrying their weight, they are going to fall. Only then they will realise, that they have never been in charge, that they have never known what it _truly_ means to be a leader. To bleed, even if you don't have any single drop of blood left, just to grease the gears of your cause for a minute longer.

"Such imbeciles," you whisper, seated against the heavy, wooden doors to your throne room. The guards have left on your command. Only a couple of candles on the walls give off a dim light, dully reflected in the grey walls. You have put out the lights illuminating your throne. As much as it is your literal seat of power, right now you would rather not be dragged down even further into the abyss of your mind. Power, such a lie 

Unlike all those imbeciles, you are familiar with the feeling of being merely a puppet, always have been since _that_ day, the worst day of your life. In search for comfort, you pull your legs towards your chest, and rest your chin against your knees. You wish your mind felt dull, uncaring and cold. As cold as your persona, draped in slate blue skin, devoid of any life, but the sick magic that keeps it from falling apart. You failed to break this hull before. As if to spite you, this world refuses to let you go. Chaining you to this soil until you are done with... with what exactly?

What you do know is that you are done begging the deities for an answer. They don't speak to you, leaving you to brood on your own with your questions. Why are you forced to live, but not allowed to choose the course? It hurts you on levels, which neither words, nor pictures or songs can describe. No one knows what it's like to be perpetually haunted by an unknown force, giving you the illusion of freedom, but shattering it the moment you can almost touch it. These broken shards tug on your mind, making you do things you don't understand yourself. It's not the pain you fear, it's not the visions of doom that scare you, not even the inexplicable rage boiling up inside, the anger you feel whenever you refuse, or hesitate to follow the force's commands, not even that can unsettle you. You could murder a thousand souls on a whim, and still sleep soundly at the end of the day, if forsaken would sleep that is. All you needed was a purpose, a reason, an answer to the looming question of _why_ you are committing all of these atrocities.

But you don't have that luxury. What actually stings you the most - usually right where your heart used to beat once - is the aftermath of each action on _their_ behalf. Masterfully, you are obliterating masses of the living, and converting them into undead. Then you are left by yourself to deal with the emotional fallout from the achievement. Each time inching a little closer towards becoming that, what you hate the most.

The one, who you hate the most.

The tormentors vanish and leave you alone in your cold little nook of this world, like cruel cowards, uncaring to take responsibility for their doing. For hell's sake, you don't even know _what_ , let alone _who_ they are, although you are sure _where_ they originally came from. All you can hear are voices in your head, pictures in front of your mind's eye. It baffles you that you have not lost your sanity enough yet, to lose the dubious luxury of indulging in periods of clarity, but also tortures you to no bearable end. 

An itch creeps in. Hasty fingers scurry towards the spot on your abdomen, ready to soothe the anticipated phantom pain, which periodically reminds you of your first death. You are lucky, since for once it spares you the torture. The dead touch of your cold fingers makes the small gift feel like bitter medicine though, as if the pain knew it did not need to show up to hurt you.

"You sick bastard, and you are not even alive anymore."

In broken hopes to find any kind of relief, you release a pressed whimper, burying your head in your legs. Why you? Why could life not be fair for just a fraction of a second? And to tackle more definite matters, why do you have to walk this road without any kind of support that actually matters? Unable to answer any of those questions, you remind yourself that you are alone, always will be alone. Guilty, and unable to find any kind of way to justify, or at least make sense of your actions. Your sniffle reverberates through the room, just to mock your - for once chosen - solitude.

To make yourself feel even more alone, your mind wanders to other people, common people. A group you have never been a part of, at least not in this... undeath. What do they see in you? What is their perception of the permanently hooded creature in the shape of an undead elf? Obviously, they see the ruthless, genocidal maniac, whose only goal it is to create more and more forsaken. Ravaging enemy corpses, chemical warfare against allies, there is nothing you would shy away from it seems. If it only increased the numbers, and presence of the undead forsaken, every instrument would be valid. They can only see the picture you painted for yourself, the image _he_ makes you manifest, even from his grave. 

Your jaw clenches in painful anger. Anger you are already tired of acting out over and over again. Every time you are exhausted from the rage, and your mind starts working on your terms again, you find yourself having succeeded in serving him even better.

That son of a bitch...

As for the common folk, they want their fears to be concentrated on a singular, mad Sylvanas Windrunner, Queen Bitch of the Forsaken, and dreaded Warchief of the Horde on Azeroth.

"Titles to strive for," you sneer, smirking in dripping sarcasm. To be brutally honest, you would not even mind being the scapegoat for everything. After all, you are in charge of this merry bunch of skin, flesh if you are lucky, but mostly bones. You know with power comes responsibility, and that everybody is judged by their actions. 

The small tinge of amusement in your face dies. How are you possibly supposed to take responsibility, if you never had a chance to choose your course of action in the first place? There would never be peace on Azeroth, you get that. Not if every race claimed their right to live on this soil. People would die on all sides, and part of that blood is most certainly on your hands. However, you are growing tired of struggling to establish some kind of fragile stability around you, only to either having somebody in the Horde going crazy, the Alliance thinking that would be the perfect timing to start a war, or some previously unknown force prodding at the hinges of this very world.

And if for some reason you encounter a regular, peaceful Tuesday, you just turn it into a campaign of terror of your own, always on the lookout for more people to force and join your ranks. It is just disgusting. What is it going to be worth, to be the leader of the biggest faction in the world, if your "citizens" consist of slaves, puppets and blind worshippers?

Grumbling escapes you. It has happened before, and it makes you want to vomit at the sight of yourself. A particular man with a particular blade, he has strived to achieve the same goal _you_ are heading towards. Out of all the individuals that have roamed Azeroth at one time or another, he makes your blood boil the most. He turned you into this! He is responsible for everything! You don't want to be like him! He has never been your idol!

Yet the parallels between Arthas Menethil and you become more apparent each day.

A piercing shriek cracks the silence in the hall. Some candles are extinguished by the sudden shift of air. Pain in your throat brings you back to reality. The banshee scream ceases, but the echo lingers between the walls for a couple more seconds. You have tried, tried so hard to erase him from your life. At Icecrown Citadel you even tried to finish _him_ off by ending your _own_ life, but the world felt like watching you burn in your mortal hell for a while longer, and brought you back to... undeath.

Repeatedly, you hit the doors behind you with closed fists. The ache caused by the scream does not bother you, not like the mental picture of your murderer, the disgustingly excited face he made when he... and when he finally ended it, by impaling you with Frostmourne. Your face cramps together, eyes pressed shut tight, trying to withstand the urge to scream again. Frantically you hammer at the doors, until your hands are sore and you feel lightheaded. That smug bastard is probably having a whale of a time right now, wherever his soul went. Even though he was truly dead now, whatever exactly Frostmourne twisted you into, still kept a tiny figment of him alive. In essence, you are keeping him immortal, and are powerless to thwart this victory of his. No matter how much freedom you claim to have gained, the resurrection into the form of a banshee has left you forever slaving to the fallen Lich King, always carrying on his sickening legacy.

Even though the Forsaken never sleep, tiredness spreads across your eyes. Oh, the things you would give up, just so you could stop being the fearsome Queen of the Forsaken, ruthless Warchief of the Horde for just one minute, and have somebody hold you close who understands your sorrow.

Instead of bashing against the door like a hopeless freak again, you push the palms of your fists against your eyes. Dry like bones, and unnaturally warm from the glow, no tears roll down your cheeks. Nonetheless, sobs escape your throat. You think you must look like a heartbroken girl crying after her lost lover. The comparison almost makes you gag. 

'Can a dead heart break?' you ask yourself. From your sad experience, a dead heart can only wither away to oblivion, or shatter into millions of tiny pieces. You know exactly what is wrong with you. You should have died a clean death, just like you demanded. Instead, your life ceased to be in your hands from that day onwards. All the efforts to gain freedom over your mind were for naught, the phantoms you hear in your head pull you right back onto the path of the Lich King, the only solace being, that you cannot hear _his_ voice in particular. All the efforts to end _your_ life failed horribly as well. If hell is truly worse than the worst fate on the mortal plane, you are duly terrified of getting there one day.

Maybe this life was making a sick joke out of "saving" you from the depths of "real" hell.

Ironically, you snort at the thought. As always: when anguish fails, grim humour takes over.

Frostmourne also managed to cut off everybody else from your life. None of your family stayed with you, through death or other reasons. All the baggage you carry around with you, there is nobody you can share the weight with. The other banshees? The Val'kyr? Your advisors? They took the role of servants, not friends. You made them fear you, leave you alone. Maybe it would be better for them to keep amongst themselves, you think. Queen Bitch of the Forsaken, you remember. Death follows you everywhere, even for those who cannot die.

With one exception.

You shake your head in defeat, and remove the fists from your eyes, although leaving them shut. 

"I guess nobody will ever understand," you say, noticing how stupid it must look. The Warchief of the Horde speaking to herself, like some mentally diseased freak. Pathetic.

"May I make the attempt, my queen?"

You freeze, ripping your eyes open.

An elven woman squats in front of you, just an arm's length away. How could you miss her coming so close? Slender fingers grip the leather wrapped hilt of an ornate dagger, with a green substance dripping from the tip. 

"They sent me to assassinate you," she looks at the dagger, briefly, before putting it back into its holster under her jet black cape, "but they don't pay me enough."

You should be on your toes! You should get up! Take the intruder down! Call for the guards, and make sure she landed in a dungeon! Instead you just close your eyes, as her hand approaches your neck.

You allow a soothingly warm hand to touch your cheek. It lingers, and you cannot explain why. Why would anybody risk coming close to you, without the intent of killing you? Why are you not pushing this fool away, before you become a raging fury, and kill her in the most gruesome way?

What is this rolling sensation on your cheek?

You open your eyes again. At first your vision is blurry, but a thumb strokes your cheek gently from your eye downwards, wiping away the rare tears. After fluttering your eyelids a couple of times, you spot a pair of warm, green eyes looking at you from a pale face, patiently accompanied by a soft smile. Unable to understand, you simply follow your instincts.

You lean into the hand.

"Last time I passed through Dalaran," the elf recounts, "I heard somebody ask whether the undead could cry." You cannot hold in a small chuckle.

"It's a secret only the two of us know about now," you say, watching her nervously flick a lock of dark red hair out of her face with her free hand. Is this what it feels like to be close, you ask yourself? Why of all things did it take a wild stranger, a rogue assassin sent after you in fact, to give you a sensation of genuineness behind some... affection?

Why did you feel so safe in spite of the situation?

"I don't know what plagues you, but..." she stares at you, suddenly unable to find words. It takes a while for her to finish her sentence. "But you look like you need somebody."

This was your last chance to punish her for entering the throne room, and threatening the leader of the Forsaken and the Horde.

You shake your head. Nothing makes sense to you anymore, so you might as well roll with it completely.

You grab the hand that touches you, and remove it from your cheek. She inhales sharply, an expression between surprise and fear in her eyes. You keep her hand in your grip.

"What are you trying to bargain from me?" you ask. Her expression moves into a territory close to your very own mood. She looks down, but something about her makes you wait patiently. 

What is happening to you?

"Bargaining sounds so cold," she murmurs, almost absentmindedly, finally regaining the courage to look into your eyes again, "it's just... I haven't had a place to call home for most of my life."

You hold each other's gaze for what feels like forever. You open your mouth, just a bit; to let air flow into your dead lungs, but your whole body remains stiff. The moment feels like a fragile figurine made of glass, keeping you terrified of shattering it.

And the light knows you are the worst when it comes to patience usually.

She mutters something under her breath and drops her gaze, shaking her head. You feel the tug as she attempts to pull away. Leaving, that's what she is trying to do. The thought of punishing her for approaching you feels off by now, so letting her go would resolve the situation rather easily. Just forget she existed! Another phantom added to the countless ones in your head. It feels tempting to give in to such an easy solution, but there is something peculiar about the moment, and you pride yourself in the fact, that you were able to pinpoint it so quickly.

This decision to act is your own.

You add another hand to your grip, and remain firm, keeping her in place with you. With a fearful glance, her gaze darts back up to your face.

"Are you sure, you are willing to commit to a cranky, murderous bitch, which tends to be a hopeless freak most of the time?" Slowly, but unstoppably, surprise replaces the fear in her face. You move her hand towards your lips, giving her delicate fingers, protruding from the tattered, fingerless gloves, a gentle kiss. A warm smile appears on your face, for the first time in what feels like an eternity. Until a second ago, you did not know that you were aching for this so badly.

A shy smile washes the surprised face away. It takes a second for her to find some courage between her involuntary, soft chuckles, but eventually she finds it all at once. "Only if you quit saying such things about yourself, my queen," she states boldly and right into your face with an almost smug, but still endearing grin. 

You raise your eyebrows. In every other case you would punish somebody for having the audacity to set up conditions before you, answering a question with a question. People need to show some respect, you are very adamant about that. But today, you are willing to let it slide. More importantly: you are willing to take a risk for... whatever is happening to _both_ of you right now, and let somebody get close to you. 

All you know is that it feels so damn right. So you return the favour, and touch the woman's cheek with your own hand. She must be freezing from your touch, you think, but not for a single second does she flinch, or shiver much. Instead, she inhales deeply, focussing on the sensation, only a very slight tremor in her breath, but visibly gleaming at the touch.

"Call me Sylvanas, friend. And if you tell me _your_ name, I will show you Undercity. The place you may call your home from now on, if you'd like."

Maybe just for once, things would go your way.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought, before Blizzard manages to screw up Sylvanas completely, I'd put my headcanon in. She has always been a fascinating character to me, and I'm honestly afraid to "lose" her to the poor storywriting.
> 
> From here there is a chance to give her a place to live on as an actual person, not a low-dimensional villain, a snapshot if you will. Be it in a fic, or in my mind.
> 
> Also, she needed somebody...
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoyed the read. It was a blast to write and explore some experiences of mine vicariously through our favourite Queen of the Forsaken!
> 
> Thank you for taking your time and reading the piece!


End file.
